


The Poisoned Rose

by shittybundaskenyer



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Clan Lavellan is dead, Eventual Romance, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Lavellan is a drunk, Slow Burn, Warden Alistair, but it consumed my soul, kind of an AU, the HoF died in the Blight, this started as a drabble
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-28 15:33:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16726110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shittybundaskenyer/pseuds/shittybundaskenyer
Summary: She walked out of the Fade twice.First, she lost her left arm.Second, she lost herheart.





	The Poisoned Rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke arranges a meeting for the Inquisitor and a certain Grey Waden in Thedas' ugliest place.

__

_13th of Cloudreach, 9:41 Dragon_

 

“Oh, I hate this place!” Sera murmured and kicked a small rock out of her way, but it landed in a puddle and water splashed on all of her feet. She _really_ wanted to stick an arrow into _everything_ in this place.

At least the rain stopped a few hours ago. Crestwood was still soaked, the ground nothing more than a slowly moving mud-river under their feet. Fat droplets of water were falling from the trees right onto their heads. Solas sighed as water slid down next to his ear and into his coat.

“Maker, you’re just a bunch of whiny babies!” Hawke muttered and shook her head. Her raven hair was still wet, sticking to her forehead and neck annoyingly and no one could take her seriously with this wet-dog look. Sera stuck out her tongue at the Champion and folded her arms in front of her chest.

“Remind me when this torture will end, Marian,” the Inquisitor grumbled under her breath and looked at Hawke. The Champion smiled and took a step closer to the elf, brushing her shoulder to hers slightly.

“My dear Ariaya, Crestwood is beautiful,” Hawke cheered and gestured towards a patch of wet trees nearby; one of them had been struck by lightning, its branches still smoldering. The air was filled with the smell of burnt flesh, smoke and rot, and if these had been not enough, the undead has risen from under the lake and demons haunted the fallow lands regularly now. It was indeed, _beautiful._

The Inquisitor huffed and adjusted the belt on her shoulder.

“Nevermind,” she quickened her steps and left the small party behind her. She was moodier today than usually and Marian started to worry. She watched the elf, her angry movements and how she preferred her right hand while eating or carrying things. Ariaya told her once that the Anchor was acting up since the fall of Haven. It flared and flickered in the most unpredictable moments, and it hurt. Maybe she was just tired of the foreign magic eating up her arm. Hawke would have been upset, too in her place.

They trekked through the bushy hillsides to shorten the way but it became more difficult than they thought. The rocks under the mud were slick and Sera’s constant whining did nothing good for them either. Ariaya became angrier with each  passing minute and she almost started complaining to Hawke about this terrible idea when the Champion gestured towards a cave’s small entrance and nodded, smiling. “We’re here.”

Ariaya told the others to keep watch outside while she and Hawke entered the cave. The way was similarly wet and dark just like everything outside and Ariaya sighed as she noticed the hurriedly painted skull on a door in the tunnel’s end.

“A smugglers’ cave? Really? Not suspicious, at all,” the Inquisitor cocked and eyebrow at Marian, but didn’t say anything else. She opened the door when they reached it and stepped in, the Champion following her closely.

The cave was dark and wet, water dripping from above them, and stalactites grew on the walls, the ground, the ceiling, _everywhere._ A small cot was in the back of the cave with a cloth draped over it in a hurry. A backpack, filled with clothes and papers were dropped on it in a company of a full plate armor. Ariaya grabbed the hilt of her dagger, feeling a bit uneasy.

Then, she ghosted her gaze across the cave and now she noticed someone standing in front of a small table in the company of almost entirely burnt-down candles. _So this is our Grey Warden, huh?_

“Who’s that?” The Warden asked, his voice surprisingly light, but she noticed the little amount of annoyance in it. The man – because he _was_ a man, a very broad-shouldered one, with narrow hips and messy, reddish-blonde hair –, tucked a handful of maps and papers into another backpack and checked all the straps on the bag while Hawke stepped next to the elf, a small smile playing in the corner of her mouth.

“It’s me,” Hawke cheered from beside Ariaya, “ and I brought a guest.”

The man stopped, palms laid flat on his desk as he leaned forward, searching for something she couldn’t see. He could at least lit a torch or something. It was dark in here, even for her elven eyes. She fidgeted with her hands as she waited for Hawke to say something else, but she remained silent.

“Look, Marian, I can’t help all the poor townsfolk you bring h…” the Warden didn’t finish his sentence when his gaze met the Inquisitor’s as he turned his face towards them.

“She’s the Inquisitor, Ariaya Lavellan.” As Hawke spoke, he eyed the elf. In the dim light she only saw the outlines of his face and the flames’ reflections flickering in his eyes. Ariaya kept her grasp tight on her dagger.

“Oh, yes, of course,” he walked closer to them, his face becoming visible enough so she could made out his features. He was around the elf’s age, maybe a few years older. He had a sharp jawline and a wide chin with a beard, a _perfect_ nose and thin, dark eyebrows. But what caught her attention most were his eyes: the skin around them was dark and puffy, but they were shining with a child’s wonder in their strange amber colour. He was quite the handsome type, she thought. He reached out his hand to properly shake hers. “I’m Alistair. It’s an honor to meet you... Although I wish it were someplace nicer.”

Ariya hesitated at first, but she returned the gesture.

“Are you _the_ Alistair who fought the Archdemon with the Hero of Ferelden?” she asked as he released her hand. She could felt the warmth of his skin through the fabric of her leather glove. A small smile played on his lips as he shook his head lightly.

“I need to change my name,” the smile grew wider and Ariaya felt more uneasy than before. He had a strange aura around him, something she just _felt_ , but couldn’t see, nor understand. “Yes, that was me,” he rolled his eyes, the subject maybe a bit too repetitive for him now. “There was war, the Blight, betrayal, a Circle taken over by abominations, werewolves, a civil war in Orzammar, walking corpses, Antivan Crows, a talking statue, oh and the ground was vomiting darkspawn right onto our heads. All lots of fun and made for excellent stories, I’m sure,” the smile faded from his lips and a slight frown grew in its wake. “But the Hero is dead and nobody talks about that anymore.”

Alistair’s gaze wandered to the floor of the cave before he looked into her eyes again. She saw something else in his eyes now: maybe grief. She heard some of the tales about the Hero of Ferelden, the fierce Dalish warrior who wielded the sword like it was a part of her own body, who saved the country from being swallowed up by the Blight, and who killed the Archdemon in the Battle of Denerim. A proud statue stood in the middle of the main square of Redcliffe, reminding every passing traveler to her sacrifice. She even heard that one particular minstrel-song about the Hero’s brief affair with the bastard son of King Maric, and she was certain that this Grey Warden from the song stood right in front of her now.

Maybe Alistair had been in love with her, she didn’t know. Ariaya didn’t keep herself a good judge of character but she met enough people before to know when someone had lost a loved one. Alistair looked just like a man whose heart got broken and never healed.

“I shouldn’t bring this up…” she started, but Alistair didn’t let her to finish her sentence.

“Anyways, I’m just a regular Grey Warden and I answer to Warden Commander Clarel now.” He pointed his forefinger towards his chest and looked at the two women in front of him like nothing happened. The easy half-smile was back on his face within a minute and he folded his arms in front of his chest and leaned to the desk behind him.

“Hawke brought me here because maybe we have the same problem,” Ariaya tried again after a few seconds, waiting for him to say something else, but he only cocked an eyebrow and remained quiet. “Do you think the problem of the Wardens involves Corypheus?” she added quietly and Alistair’s eyes lit up immediately.

This question interested him more, she assumed, because his eyebrows knitted together in thought. One hand reached to his face and he brushed his fingers through his beard, his thumb’s tip stroking his bottom lip.

“I think so,” he nodded, his amber eyes watching her curiously.

Hawke found herself a crate in the corner next to the cot and she dusted it’s top, then sat down on it. She looked at Araya first, then the Warden. “When I killed Corypheus everything seemed right. He _was_ dead.”

“Yes, but archdemons don’t die from simple injury, Marian…” Alistair scratched his neck nervously and turned towards the table, his hands already busying themselves with arranging parchments and maps from one side of the table to the other. “I feared Corypheus may have the same power,” he continued, worry rising in his tone, “so I started to investigate.”

“But we killed him. How could he still be here?” Hawke leaned back to the cold stones of the cave’s wall, the back of her head colliding with it’s wet surface with a small _thud._

“As I said, I started investigating,” Alistair shook his head and Ariaya watched him from behind; how the muscles flexed in his shoulder under his tunic, how he scratched his neck when he was deep in thought, how he hummed a simple tune under his breath. “I found only just hints, but no proof,” he continued as he grabbed a stack of parchment, clearly satisfied that he found what he was searching. “And then, not long after, every Grey Warden in Orlais began to hear the Calling.”

“ _What?_ ” Hawke’s eyes snapped open, her face now pulling into a frown. “You never told me.” She stood up and brought her hands up to bury her face in her palms. She shook her head lightly, her still wet hair sticking to every direction.

“I’m sorry about your brother,” Alistair looked down for a second, biting his plump bottom lip, “but I actually try to keep some of my oaths to the Wardens. It was a secret, a very dangerous one.”

Marian nodded. She understood the rules of the Order, that every secret was what it was for a good reason, but she had only Carver left of her family. She will not let him die because of some darkspawn magister’s madness.

“But what _is_ the Calling?” Ariaya interrupted her thoughts, but the question was addressed to Alistair. Hawke sat back down on the crate.

“We’re connected to the darkspawn,” he explained, “we can sense them if they’re nearby somehow, and this connection poisons your mind. It starts with bad dreams, and then you start to hear the music. It calls to you, quiet at first,” his voice became almost inaudible as he remembered the song, it’s enticing humming in his ears all the time. His eyes flicked back to hers. “A sweet lullaby in the back of your mind. And then it gets so loud, you can’t bear it anymore.”

Ariaya swallowed as Alistair turned towards the desk again, clasping the final buckles on his backpack. She thought about the tune he was humming earlier. _Was that the Calling? The song?_

“And what happens after?” She asked quietly, her voice almost just a whisper but he heard her every word clearly.

“You say your goodbyes and go to the Deep Roads to die fighting,” he said plainly, but his eyes betrayed him as his gaze met hers again. Ariaya wondered how can someone see so many feelings by just looking into somebody’s eyes. She saw sadness now, and maybe a hint of guilt. “The last sacrifice of the Warden.”

“In death, sacrifice,” Ariaya muttered, remembering the stories she heard as a little girl. The Keeper told them once about the Wardens: warriors from every race, fighting together to protect Thedas; she told them that no one’s sacrifice was greater than theirs.

Alistair looked at her with shining eyes, the wonder returning in them for a second. Ariaya didn’t know what caused him to look at her like this, and she felt a bit anxious. She could read his emotions, but couldn’t see his thoughts.

“And now every Warden in Orlais hears the Calling?” Hawke interrupted, pointing the blade of her staff towards them. Alistair closed his eyes and nodded.

“They think they’re dying?” Ariaya looked up at him and he knitted his eyebrows together. Small crow’s feet lined the edges of his eyes, she observed as she finally had a closer look at him. Freckles and faint scars peppered his whole face and wrinkles appeared on his forehead when he was deep in thought.

“Yes. I think Corypheus caused this somehow. If the Wardens die out, no one will stop the next Blight. You can understand why they’re so terrified.” Alistair walked to his cot and dropped his other backpack to the ground from it, revealing something shiny under it. Hawke stood up, but left her staff next to the crate and stepped closer to Ariaya. The Warden lifted the shiny thing from the cot and tucked it into one of his pockets, then started to put up his armor.

“Corypheus frightened them and now they’re playing right into his hands,” Marian muttered, her hands clenching into fists as she started pacing next to the Inquisitor.

“This Calling… Is this real or is he mimicking it somehow?” Ariaya asked Alistair but it took him a moment to answer as he struggled with his coat.

“I know little about him. I didn’t even know that he was a magister until I started digging around,” he shrugged, then pulled his breastplate through his head, adjusting it on his torso. “But right now, all that matters is that the Wardens are acting like they’re going to die.”

“You hear it too, didn’t you?” Marian turned towards him and he stopped in his motions, then nodded slowly.

“When I’m talking or fighting I can almost ignore it,” he explained, then started to fidget with the buckles of his armor. “But when the night comes… when everything is quiet, I hear it crystal clear. It’s like a song you can’t get out of your head. It’s damned annoying, frankly.” He didn’t tell them that he caught himself humming it while cooking dinner or polishing his armor. The song became quite nice sometimes, even if he didn’t want to admit it.

“I just… I can’t understand how Corypheus can affect all those Wardens.” Ariaya took a step closer and helped him clasping the buckles on his back when she noticed him struggling. Alistair shuddered a little as he felt the warmth of her hands on his back, the delicate fingers brushing his shoulder-blades under the plate’s cold metal.  

“He’s tied to the Blight, and he’s not just a product of it like other darkspawn,” Alistair stepped away when she was done and Ariaya started fidgeting with her fingers awkwardly. “We are connected to the darkspawn, too. Maybe he controls the Wardens just like he can control the darkspawn.”

“So the Wardens are making some last, desperate attack on the darkspawn?” She mumbled after a moment of silence, her gaze still fixated on the Warden’s back.

“I saw what the last Blight did to Ferelden. I was there at Ostagar when the King’s army got slaughtered. I saw what it did to the land, to the animals,” angry words spilled from his mouth at the memory. “It twisted every living creature into something _evil_ – if it didn’t killed it on the spot. If Wardens hadn’t stopped the Blight back then, there would be no more Thedas.”

“I lived in Lothering. I saw it myself,” Hawke agreed with him, the memory of the corrupted creatures and the rotting ground still fresh in her mind, even if it happened almost a decade ago. The Blight killed _everything_.

“But what they’re planning now?”

“Clarel proposed some… drastic ideas, like blood magic and such, to prevent future Blights,” Alistair readjusted his gloves and buckled his sword-belt, the blade’s griffon-engraved hilt glinting in the dim light at his middle. “I protested, maybe a bit too loudly, and now here I am, hiding in a smuggler cave, marked as a traitor of the Grey Wardens.”

“Two Wardens were searching you… maybe a week earlier. We encountered them on the road.”

Alistair stepped to the table and grabbed the parchments left on it, then held it above one of the candles. The paper caught on fire easily and soon disappeared into smoke and ashes.

“I saw them too. But they didn’t know me closely… And I have the perfect disguise.” The Warden smiled at them both, then grabbed his shield from under the table and checked the cloth what was covering the shining griffon wings on it.

“Yeah, because you have a beard for _that_ purpose, and entirely not for the lack of shaving.” Marian smirked knowingly and Alistair nodded.

“Exactly.”

“Oh how smart you are.” The Champion grabbed her staff and spun it once, then pointed it’s blade’s tip at Alistair.

“Anyways, Wardens were gathering in the Western Approach in an old Tevinter ritual tower.” Alistair swung his backpack onto his shoulder and blew out the candles on the table. The cave turned into darkness immediately. Marian flicked her fingers and a small flame caught ablaze in her palm.

“Wonderful. I like the sound of possible blood sacrifices and demon-summoning.” Ariaya sighed, following the Champion towards the entrance of the cave.

Alistair was close behind her, only a few steps away. “We should get to that tower as soon as we can,” he insisted, and the Inquisitor almost stumbled upon her own foot.

“Oh yes, maybe we have a little problem with that.”

“What?” Alistair’s eyebrows rose almost to his hairline, even if she didn't see them.

“We have an invitation to the Empress' Ball in Halamshiral…” She started, but Alistair interrupted her with a high-pitched sound.

“You can’t be _serious."_

“Someone wants to assassinate the Empress, and _of course_ we have to help her. I don’t like the idea either, but the Inquisition needs allies,” she explained but Alistair grabbed her arm, stopping her. Her other hand almost immediately went for the hilt of her sword, but the Warden released her just in time before she could unsheathe her weapon and press it’s edge to his throat.

“I’m sorry,” Alistair muttered and stepped back but Ariaya shook her head.

“I just don’t like being touched like this. You don’t have to apologize.”

Alistair nodded as they reached the exit of the cave and he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, not adjusted to the strong white light of the sky. It almost looked like the sun was shining, but the thick clouds were still present. “So we talk about the possibility of a new Blight and Wardens dying out and then you bring _Orlesian politics_ into our conversation,” Alistair sighed and looked at the Inquisitor like he would want to memorize her features: the dark skin, the moles on her face, the brown hair sticking to her forehead and the glowing, caramel-coloured eyes.

“She’s a cruel woman,” Hawke smirked next to her and greeted the rest of their party with a small smile.

_Yes, cruel indeed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy.   
> This story started as a small drabble but it consumed my soul within a week. This will be a wild ride, I can promise you that. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! :D This is my first story in English so far, so I'm a bit nervous. Feedback is always welcome, and if you find any mistake please feel free to correct it!


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